


I wish you were here

by Vanimelda4



Series: Teenlock short stories [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fever Dreams, Fluff, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13668927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanimelda4/pseuds/Vanimelda4
Summary: Just as they've finally got two weeks off from school a reluctant Sherlock has to accompany his family on a mountain ski trip and John ends up bed ridden with the flu. Now if only that damn crocodile would leave him alone so he could get some damn sleep.Part of my teenlock AU short stories series. All parts can be read separately, but might make more sense as a whole.





	I wish you were here

John was pretty sure he was dying.  
It was the only viable explanation for how he felt.  
He currently found himself in bed bathing in sweat with a throat that felt like it was lined with razorblades, a cough that sounded as if he had swallowed a goose that was desperately trying to get out again and a fever so high he could probably cook eggs on his forehead.  
Oh god.....eggs....he did his best not to think about eggs.  
He'd thrown up three times already that morning. He wasn't sure he'd survive another round. 

'Uuuuuugh', John groaned and tried to reach for the glass of water his mother had placed on the nightstand.  
'Uuuuugh' John groaned again as he accidentally knocked it over in his fevered haze.  
This is how I die, he thought and as the water slowly dripped from the nightstand to the ground he pulled the covers over his head.

*****************************************************

And to think John had actually been looking forward to today. Due to the Easter holidays the schools were closed for the next two weeks so in the months leading up to today his imagination had been working overtime by devising scenarios that involved him, Sherlock and an entire day all to themselves. Two weeks worth of days like that in fact. It had sounded amazing. Until it wasn't.  
Turned out Sherlocks family had planned some kind of spring ski-trip in some kind of posh mountain resort. 

'Oh, sounds fun', John had said. Trying to hide his disappointment behind a polite smile and failing miserably. 

Sherlock had just rolled his eyes.  
'Oh, just delightful', he'd said with mock enthusiasm, 'two weeks forced to spend quality time with my family. It'll be heaven I'm sure.'

'At least you'll get to ski.'

'I don't like skiing.'

'Snowboarding?'

'No.'

'Mountain climbing?'

'Definitely not.'

'Well, what do you like then?' 

'I like you.'  
The mischievous smile that had accompanied this statement had done strange things to Johns insides. Turned them into a warm, gooey mush mostly. 

'Sadly, you can't take me with you', John said, still trying to smile, but finding it harder and harder to keep the corners of his mouth from drooping.

'Can't I though?' Sherlock replied.

'I am not hiding in your suitcase.'

'It was worth a shot.'

*****************************************************

Turns out it didn't really matter anyway whether Sherlock was around or not, because during the night John had gotten so sick with the flu that he wasn't even able to get out of bed. Let alone partake in any activities with Sherlock.  
So he just spent the rest of the day in bed feeling like utter crap, lamenting his current situation and wishing he was dead. 

He silently hoped this flu would be a violent, but quick thing, but alas: the next three days ended up following pretty much the same pattern.  
He took as much paracetamol and cough medicine as he dared and reluctantly sipped on the soup his mother brought him. Wincing as it burned his sore throat as it went down. 

'I'm really not hungry, mom.' he'd tried. A whole sentence without coughing. At least he was improving on that point, he thought just as he doubled over coughing with renewed vigor. Never mind then. Turned out the fates wouldn't even allow him this one silver lining. 

'You'll never get better if you don't eat, John', his mother said while she patted the back of the hacking ball of misery that seemed to have currently replaced her son.

'I wish I was dead', John groaned. 

'Don't be melodramatic. It's a flu, not the plague. Eat your soup.' 

After finishing his soup, wincing and coughing at nearly every swallow, his mother had left him alone again so he could try and get some sleep. 

John hated sleeping when he had a fever. He always got the worst fever-dreams when he did. One time he had dreamed there'd been a clown made entirely out of rotting teeth in his room. Just standing in the corner. Looking at him with eyes made out of his own baby-teeth. He wasn't sure how he'd known they were his teeth, but in the dream it had made perfect sense. He had tried turning his back to it, but every time he did it would just move to another corner without actually moving. It just appeared there as if it had always been there. And if John tried to get out of bed it would raise one arm and point at him and scream. A high pitched noise that sounded an awful lot like teeth rubbing together violently. This dream had lasted for 4 days until his fever finally broke and he realized it wasn't real.  
So to put off sleeping for as long as possible he tried texting Sherlock instead: 

**How's the skiing going?**

John wasn't really expecting a reply. He didn't even know if Sherlock had reception up in the mountains, but after only a couple of seconds his phone buzzed as Sherlocks reply lit up the screen.

_I want to die. SH_

John smiled as Sherlocks text echoed his earlier words. At least he wasn't the only one feeling miserable. 

**That bad?**

_Worse. My mother is planning a family game-night tonight. Charades have been mentioned SH_

John was about to send out a reply when his phone buzzed again with another message from Sherlock. 

_And I have a big double bed in my room and you're not in it. SH_

Johns smile widened at the unexpected sentimental tone and again his phone buzzed. 

_If you had just hidden in my suitcase like I suggested. SH._

**I wouldn't be much fun to have around anyway. I'm sick.**

_Sick? SH_

**Super flu. I feel awful. I feel like dying. I miss you. I just wish you were here.**

John waited for another reply, but nothing came. Eventually he got tired of waiting and realizing he could no longer delay the inevitable he placed his phone underneath his pillow, that way the vibration would wake him up if Sherlock did text back, and tried to sleep. 

*****************************************************

As soon as John closed his eyes he fell asleep almost instantaneously, but as he had feared, it was not a very restful sleep. 

This time there was no clown made of teeth, but a huge crocodile. A smiling crocodile with rotting bits of flesh between its teeth. In his fevered state the dream felt so real John swore he could smell the fetid stench of its breath as the crocodile growled at him almost continuously. It moved and slithered all around his room and every time he felt he was finally slipping into more peaceful dreams the crocodile would crawl up to his bed, hoist itself up onto the mattress next to him and smother him with its putrid, scaly bulk until he woke himself up screaming. 

Mostly he dreamed of the crocodile, but there were also other dreams. All equally horrid. In one dream all of his limbs suddenly flew away and as he tried to scream he found out he couldn't because his mouth had gone too. He could see it flying out of the bedroom window. Right up until the moment both his eyeballs popped out.

In another dream he thought he was buried alive and in another horrifying dreamscape he thought his throat was actually made of glass and every time he coughed the glass would crack more until it finally shattered and separated his head from his neck for good. 

*****************************************************

As day turned into night John was finding it harder and harder to separate dream from reality and he could not get the crocodile to leave for the life of him. 

'Go away', he groaned weakly as once again he felt the mattress dip beside him. 

'Go away? I just got here', a very familiar voice replied. Sherlocks voice. 

Lacking the strength to turn around completely John just turned his head to the familiar sound. Sure enough, there was Sherlock. In his bed. Even though it was pretty late in the evening now and there was barely any light left in his room he could just make out that familiar and oh so lovely face. Of course he was still dreaming. For one he could still see the crocodile slithering around just behind Sherlocks shoulder. Dead giveaway. And Sherlock couldn't possibly be here. He was off in the mountains somewhere, probably engrossed in a riveting game of charades with his family. Definitely not skiing though, or snowboarding, or mountain climbing. 

John giggled, then coughed, then winced as his throat once again felt as if it housed thousands of tiny creatures with sharp teeth and nails that were trying to claw their way back to freedom. 

'How are you feeling?' dream Sherlock said. 

This was the first time John had hallucinated something nice in a fevered state. He quite liked it. 

'I've been better', he replied. 

Dream Sherlock smiled.  
'You should try and get some sleep', he said. 

'I want to but the crocodile won't let me.'

Dream Sherlock looked puzzled. 'O-kay......'

'The crocodile!' John said, raising his voice in frustration and flailing his arm halfheartedly in the general direction of the crocodile. 

Dream Sherlock looked in the direction John was trying to point for a good long while and if he indeed saw something there he chose not to comment on it. 

'Do you need anything John? Water? Anything to eat?'

John dry heaved at the mention of food. 

'Okay, maybe not. Is it okay if I stay here or do you want me to go?'

'No!', John shot up in bed. For once he was dreaming something nice and now his dream was already trying to leave him? Not on. 'Don't go', he said weakly as he let himself fall back to his pillow and closed his eyes. Even just sitting up had drained his energy completely. 

A soft hand was gently placed on his forehead. This dream was getting better and better by the second. He almost couldn't hear the crocodile anymore. Almost. 

'Christ, you're burning up, John.' 

Dream Sherlock sounded so worried. John loved it. It was nice to feel so cared for. 

'Just stay with me', John whispered. Eyes still closed.

'Of course'

A long arm was draped around him and John nestled his face in the crook of Sherlocks neck. He sighed contentedly. 'You smell nice.' 

Sherlock chuckled. 'You smell like vomit and sweat.' 

'S not me, 's the crocodile.' 

'Of course it is, John.'

'Tell it to go away.' 

'I will John. Just try and sleep now.' 

The arm around him pulled him just a bit tighter and a gentle kiss was placed on the top of his head. And from the back of his room he could hear the crocodile growl one more time before it slithered down the hallway and left.  
'Thank you, Sherlock'

'I love you, John.'

*****************************************************

John woke up a couple more times during the night, but the crocodile never returned.  
The image of Sherlock, however, never left his side. Gently stroking his back, asking him if he needed anything. It was heaven. At one point he had even dreamed up Sherlock had put a damp rag on his forehead to help cool the fire that was raging inside his head. 

He had thrown up once more during the night and Sherlock had diligently helped him change the bedding. Pulling him close again when he got back in bed. 

'I'm sorry I can't stay until morning', Sherlock had whispered in his hair. 

'S okay'. 

'Your mom just can't find me here.'

'S okay, maybe the crocodile went and ate her.'

John felt more than heard Sherlocks smile as his breath ghosted along his hair.  
'One can only hope. Try and sleep some more John'

'I love you Sherlock.'

'Sleep.'

*****************************************************

When John woke up the next morning his fever was gone and sadly so was dream-Sherlock.  
He was alone in his bed again. He sighed.  
He was glad he was feeling better, but he also missed the tender touches and whispered words he had conjured up during the night. It would be another week and a half at least before Sherlock would come back home. 

God, his mouth tasted like vomit. John remembered the glass on his nightstand and stretched out his hand to get it, but instead of a glass his fingers touched on something unfamiliar.  
Puzzled John held the strange object his hand had made contact with in front of his face.  
A snow globe.  
John did not own a snow globe.  
As he peered inside the glass dome of the globe he saw a figurine of plastic snow capped mountains, a small cottage and even a tiny ski-lift that went up.  
At the base of the globe there were words printed. In the morning light John had to hold the globe very close to his face to try and make out the fancy lettering.  
As John was starting to make out what the writing said he suddenly felt all warm again, but not because of any fever this time. He whispered the words out loud and smiled:  
'I wish you were here.'

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many more ideas for this au you guys.  
> This story is pretty much inspired by all the crazy ass dreams I have whenever I've got a fever.


End file.
